


Kingsman: Beginning to the End

by the42towels



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Kingsman: The Secret Service - Fandom
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Slight mentions of anal or bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the42towels/pseuds/the42towels
Summary: An alternate take on the Kingsman movies, focusing on Merlin and an OFCBasically a "merlin gets laid and also gets to live" fix-it fic. Sorry, I'm not good with summaries





	Kingsman: Beginning to the End

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Merlin is my favorite and I refused to accept his (however fantastically done) death scene so I rewrote the Kingsman to save him and also get him some loving.

 

            She was from a long line of Kingsman. Her ancestor had been the first Kingsman, the one who orchestrated and came up with the concept of modern day knights defending against injustice in the wake of WWI, a story that was drilled into her head from the moment she had language. Her ancestor, the one who corralled the other tailors and men with wealth and no heirs and created the organization, had had a son. And that son had had a son, and that son had a daughter and that daughter was her grandmother, a strict stern no-nonsense matriarch who ran the family, the estate and the Kingsman with an iron first and a rigid spine.

            From the time she could walk, she was trained, and taught, and told: your place is in the Kingsman. She had a legacy to live up to, an inheritance to earn, a name to replace her identity, if she had ever had one. Her grandmother’s codename was Morgana La Fey, and she was Arthur’s only superior. Luckily for Arthur, she preferred to work behind scenes, a tartan shawl knotted about her aged shoulders. Morgana often told her that when she had earned her place in the Kingsman, she would be given her grandmother’s name. Until that day occurred, she was called Ganieda in all official Kingsman documentation. She was also to be under the primary care and training of her grandmother’s right-hand man, the taciturn Scottish man codenamed Merlin.

            Merlin was only in his twenties when he’d been inducted into the Kingsman but his intellect and his quick thinking helped him win the attention of Morgana, and rather than be one of the many nameless people working in the tech division or the inventions division of Kingsman, he was specially selected by the older woman to serve as her assistant, handling all sensitive Kingsman business. Which included training and mentoring the young Ganieda.

            Ganieda knew the other Kingsman: Arthur with his soft face and hard words, and Galahad with his gentle eyes and quick smile, whom she called Uncle Harry, Lancelot who had a wife who was pregnant and couldn’t stop smiling at his impeding fatherhood. But it was Merlin she adored. She loved him in the innocent way a child loves someone who keeps them safe and who always makes them feel important. He was patient with her in a way he wasn’t with adults; explaining how to take apart and reassemble a gun as many times as it took until she understood, going over table etiquette without a hard edge to his voice even if he would often lay into Percival with the sharp point of his tongue for making the same mistakes she did. In the beginning, he approached her like business: his boss wanted him to teach her granddaughter how to take her place in the family business. But that feeling of professional detachment didn’t last and before long, he adored her as much as she loved him. He’d sing her John Denver songs, and read her stories at night, until his throat grew thick with his Scottish brogue, and kiss her forehead when she did something right, and temper his scoldings with a soft smile.

            By the time she was eight, she was skilled at long range shooting, and exceptional with close range knife combat, and adept with hacking into mainframes, a prodigy child spy. Out of all the Kingsman, Merlin alone seemed to remember and always keep in mind that though she was as adept as the rest of them, she was still only a child. When her grandparents bought her rifle scopes, and her parents bought her oxfords and bespoke suits to get her used to wearing high end tailored outfits, it was Merlin who bought her a furby and a dress like the one Alice wore in _Alice in Wonderland_. She wore that dress on the gun range, and to lessons. The Kingsman would chuckle and shake their heads at the sight of the pigtailed Ganieda in her dress tromping after Merlin, a rifle twice her size held in her skinny arms, but Merlin always looked behind at her with pride.

            By the time she was eleven, she was a sniper for the Kingsman, too young to be allowed to be a field agent. She spent missions on rooftops, or wedged into small openings in buildings up high, a scope trained on whomever Merlin deemed the target. She usually backed up the New Lancelot. He had been around long enough that calling him the New Lancelot didn’t make sense, but she remembered the Lancelot he’d replaced. The Old Lancelot had been the proud father who left his son fatherless by saving Merlin and Harry from an insurgent, and he was missed. The New Lancelot didn’t take offense. He seemed to understand that to Merlin, Galahad, and to Ganieda, he was the replacement. He seemed to agree. He was a fun guy, he took nothing serious, and out of all the other Kingsman, seemed the least offended to have a young girl as his back up, and would always say over the comm, “ready to protect this knight, princess?” He was easy for her to work with. Maybe he didn’t respect her but he respected the legacy that had spat her out, and she would live with that.

            Merlin watched from his room, eyes on all screens, monitoring each agent, but his eyes and ears always lingered on her feed. He’d hold his breath without realizing it, as he watched her focus on the target, and follow his rules about how to take out someone: breathe slowly, tighten the finger, pull in between breaths. Their hearts beat as one in those moments, as he watched over her from afar. When he’d see the splatter that indicated that she’d done well, he’d smile to himself and mutter to her over their shared feed, “well done, teacup.”

            She and Lancelot got along well. After missions, he’d take her out for ice cream, and regale her with tales-exaggerated of course-of his younger days and exploits. Merlin would listen in over the feed, rolling his eyes at Lancelot, and warning him not to let Ganieda spoil her appetite. By the time she was fifteen, post-mission ice cream with Lancelot became their thing, a time-honored tradition that the other Kingsman knew of and secretly thought was adorable. Merlin started to experience that sour stomach feeling that indicated he was jealous that Ganieda seemed to have found someone else to look up to and to adore. By the time she was sixteen, Lancelot had taught her things in hand to hand combat that Merlin didn’t know, and had taught her how to enjoy drinking. Galahad was taking her out to the gun range now, and teaching her how to share meals in different cultural households, and Morgana and Arthur were making noises about submitting her to training, and giving her a different codename rather than wait for her to take Morgana’s place. Merlin was starting to feel more and more like the girl he’d raised and taught was leaving him behind, was being taken from him by everyone else. His stomach ached at the thought of her looking down on him because he was only intel, and not a field agent. He didn’t realize that she still followed him everywhere, eager to make him proud.

            She was seventeen when she kissed him in the backseat of her car while the division was up and they had privacy while the driver guided them through London traffic. He pushed her away. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her forehead and said, voice trembling, “no. No. Just because your grandmother wants you to start training for honeypot missions, doesn’t mean you can or should try it on me. I’m so much older than you, and you’re still a kid. You haven’t spent much time with anyone, you don’t know what you want, teacup.” He cupped her head in his large hands, a familiar gesture as he held his lips against her hairline. She clutched at his itchy woolen sweater, comforting in its familiarity, and said, voice choked with embarrassment and pain, “but I love you.”

            “Not in the way you think you do.”

            She pushed from him then and looked him in the eye and said, trying to seem worldly and sophisticated like Harry would, or Lancelot, but only coming across like a young girl trying so very hard to seem more mature than she really is, “how would you know how I feel?”

            “Because I’ve known you your whole life. You think you’re attracted to me, because I’ve always been here for you. I always will be here for you, teacup. Always. But not in the way you think you want me. It’s inappropriate. You’re too young, I’m too old. You’ve barely been…You haven’t had the experiences you think you have. I’ve had so much more, it wouldn’t be right. ”

            She nodded and turned to look out the window, humiliated. The car started, and they rode in silence, as her stomach churned with the indignity of her first rejection. His hand found hers, and held it, thumb running over her knuckles, like he always did when they held hands. She wanted to pull away, reject him like he rejected her. But more than anything, she wanted him to hold her hand, and comfort her. So she turned her hand over, entwining their fingers, even as tears ran down her face in a streak of humiliated heartbreak.

            By the time she was eighteen, she was the top sniper and top guard for the Kingsman, and worked as a bodyguard for the other Kingsman, escorting them from mission to mission. When she wasn’t assigned a Kingsman to follow, she spent her time at the Kingsman HQ shadowing her grandmother as she taught her the inner workings of running and controlling an international spy network. She barely talked to Merlin, the heartache too raw. She was spiteful, intending to hurt Merlin as much as she could, and to that end she was warm and friendly with the other Kingsman, and flirted outrageously with targets and honeypots when she knew Merlin would see and hear everything through her glasses. She ignored Merlin, and spent her free time in foreign locales. But despite her pain and her desire to see Merlin regret what he’d turned down, she could never bring herself to truly let him down by acting inappropriately, by behaving in a way unbecoming of a lady. He’d raised her too well.

            Her grandmother and Arthur started discussing assigning her to her own missions, taking her off the roster as a sniper and backup for the Kingsman and putting her in the rotation for seduction missions. She was pleasantly warmed from the inside out when she overheard Merlin arguing vehemently against it. Even when they were strained and no longer talking, he still had her best interests at heart, she knew, and always wanted to protect her.

            Merlin got his way when he swore to take advantage of his 18 years worth of vacation time and take Ganieda to Disney World in the USA. They relented, and she was put back in the roster for being back up to Kingsman agents. She started talking to him again, after going down to his lab and wrapping her arms around him and kissing his bald forehead.

            By the time she was 21, she had been around the world, had a couple of boyfriends and some girlfriends, lost her virginity to a man that strongly resembled Merlin but was shorter and spoke with a Spanish accent, and was still in love with Merlin. Somewhere along the road from being a girl to becoming a woman, her feelings of love, innocent and guileless had turned into feelings of love, deep and strong, lustful but loyal. Anything Merlin said, she took to heart. She trusted him more than her own grandmother, more than Arthur. But Merlin was unswayed. He still refused to allow himself to see her as anything other than the little girl who had followed him on the gun range in her Alice dress, he felt too strong a sense of responsibility for the girl he’d been entrusted with, felt too strong a sense of morality to cross the line from being her mentor to being someone else.

            One day, when she was still 21, much like when she was seventeen, she kissed him again. He pushed her away again. But she had aged, matured. She had had the experience he’d insisted she have, and she was able to present her argument calmly to him. He refused her, and she countered.

            “I’m so much older than you.”

            “So? I’m of legal age now, and it’s not like you ever took advantage of me when I was younger. “

            “I raised you.”

            “And taught me everything I know, and maybe when I was younger, I did mistake my love for you as a family figure for feelings of attraction and sexual desire, but that was then. I’ve had others, I had the experience you wanted me to have, I’ve dated others, and guess what? I still want you. I always come back to you. It’s you I love, Merlin.”

            “It’s not-“ He started to say, but his voice was weak, he faltered. He knew, as much as he wanted to resist it, somewhere along the line, he’d fallen in love with her. Agents weren’t supposed to have feelings, and he wasn’t supposed to have feelings for the girl he’d raised from a young child.

            “Agents aren’t supposed to have romantic entanglements.” He began, and she rolled her eyes.

            “And yet my whole family managed not to die off.”

            He scoffed in amusement at that, and conceded her point. “The age difference is too large.”

            She shot him a look, one he had seen her give to Lancelot, and a look he’d never received. It was a look she reserved for times when someone was speaking nonsense and she wanted to convey how she felt about said nonsense. He couldn’t be offended and only chuckled wanly as he crossed his leg in the back seat of the car. All her seduction attempts happened in this town car, he noted.

            “Well, it is true. I was twenty…” he paused to do the math, and she silenced him by flopping against his side in a familiar gesture and said, petulantly,

            “Well it’s not like you’re old enough to be my dad!”  
            “Well.. technically.. “

            “Merlin!” She scolded and sat up to look at him. “I’m serious. You were right, when I was seventeen. I didn’t know enough to know anything. But I was right too.”

            He raised an eyebrow, silently inviting her to keep going. She said, leaning back against the seats,

            “I knew I loved you. I’ve always loved you, but there’s little kid love and this kind of love. And when I was seventeen, I was already **in** love with you, even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time, and even if you didn’t think I was capable of that. But I was right. I was in love with you then, and I’m still in love with you, and I’ll never look at anyone else the way I look at you, and I want you and I want to be with you, and I don’t care if you’re old enough to be my dad, or if you’re bald, or if you’re not a field agent-“

            Merlin started to say something and she said, “yeah, I heard you talking to Percival. How-why would you even think I cared about that? Everyone knows they can’t get anything done without you. You’re Merlin! The man behind the organization. My grandma can’t run things as well as she does without your help. You’re the true threat, the true power, as far as I’m concerned.”        

            Merlin preened under her compliments, however delivered matter-of-factually they were, and then she was leaning against him again, looking up into his eyes and saying, “Merlin. Take me home.”

            Merlin regarded her silently for a long while, and then nodded and rapped on the glass partition to get the attention of their driver. He said, “to her residence, if you please.”

            Once the partition was up again, soundproof and tinted and allowing them privacy, Ganieda looked at him askance and said, “you know you’re coming up with me right?”

            Merlin looked at her, and knew. In that moment he knew. She was right. He was coming home with her. This was always going to happen. Not from the moment he first held an infant Ganieda in his arms and was told by Morgana: “you’re in charge of training her to get her ready for the Kingsman test when I’m ready for her to take over for me.” Not from the moment she’d first successfully assembled her first rifle by herself while blindfolded and had grinned at his praise with a gaptoothed smile. Not from the moment he’d taken her on her first long range assassination mission and had whispered instructions into her ear on that windblown chilly rooftop in Russia, while his hand rubbed warm circles on her back. But somewhere along the road of her life, when she went from being his charge and his little girl, and grown into a young woman who represented the best of his knowledge and his abilities, he’d looked at her and no longer saw the little girl in the Alice dress, but saw her for who she was now: a capable smart woman who had a legacy of gentlemen spies to live up to and who carried that weight with the serious responsibility he had instilled in her. One day somewhere along the line, he’d looked at her and realized that he was in love with her too.

            They held themselves together as they exited the car, and walked up the short steps to her flat, keenly aware of the eyes of their driver. The drivers were sworn to secrecy and kept their mouths shut, observing all and exposing nothing, but it still wasn’t becoming to carry on like animals in front of their driver. She unlocked the door, and he followed her in. They moved from the foyer, where they hung their coats, to the kitchen where she offered him scotch wordlessly. He was touched to see that she kept her little bar arranged the way he had his in his own apartment, and that she stocked it with his favorite brand of scotch, while the bottle of her grandmother’s favorite brandy was nearly empty, the rim and cap slimy with old brandy split on it. He sipped his drink with a slight air of smugness, secure in the knowledge that the woman next to him valued him and cared more about his drinking habits than she cared about her own family’s. They were killing time. Not because they were nervous about what they intended to do, but because they wanted to wait a respectable amount of time before calling the driver to let him know he was relieved for the night. It was as if they always knew this moment would come, so secure and safe in each other’s existence that the idea of being nervous and worried never occurred to them at all. Merlin checked his watch and nodded, deciding it was long enough. Given the signal, Ganieda used her watch’s communication button to signal the driver and said, “we haven’t finished the paperwork, you can go home. We will call you when Merlin’s ready to leave, thank you.”

            A tinny “yes ma’am” and they waited as the car came to life, the head beams flashing across the window and curtains, setting the living room alight before the car silently, smoothly pulled away. When the car was gone, they looked at each other, and she took the half empty glass from him. He watched impassively as she finished the remainder of it, and then she took his hand and they walked up the stairs towards her bedroom.

            Merlin knew her apartment like he knew his own, and she knew his apartment like she knew her own. He knew how her room was decorated, with the black duvet that had pink and purple flowers on it, and the cherrywood furniture. He knew about the plush rug on the floor before her bed, and the small paintings on the walls depicting scenes from Russian literature. She was a wiz in Russian and when he or other agents needed help deciphering Russian, she was the first one they called. The only thing he didn’t know about was the small framed photo she kept on her bedside table and usually hid when he was at her place.

            She turned to him, and took the usual stance, feet apart, hands at the small of her back and looked up at him, as if awaiting orders. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead, tenderly and gently, then straightened up to look down at her. She said, smiling, “now what?”

            He looked at her and then at the bed and then at the rug under his feet. He looked at her again and dropped to one knee. She was wearing a dress. She usually wore a dress. She hadn’t earned the right to wear a bespoke suit, and dresses suited her better. He took the hem of her skirt in his hands and lifted it, almost reverently, and leaned in.

            She sighed, but didn’t move her hands from behind her back, as he mouthed at her, and licked at her. He used one hand to hold her skirt above his head, and the other to move her panties aside so he could get to her skin underneath.

            His tongue was expert and warm and wet, and he worked her like he worked his computer: diligently, and thoroughly. She was trembling and quivering, almost to the brink, when he pulled away. She looked down at him with a sound of disappointment and he stood up, slowly, so that he didn’t get dizzy, and walked her backwards to the bed. She stumbled down with a flounce, and then he was on his knees again, between her thighs, sliding her wet panties off her hips, past the garter belt and suspenders she always wore. He leaned in again, and she fell back on her back, and squirmed under him, vocal this time. She cried his name, both his code name and his given name, until he decided to go easy on her, and then he was pulling away from her and climbing over her, his eyes dark with desire, and she was pulling his face to hers and kissing him, even as he said, “wait, wait, I haven’t wiped my mouth, I taste like yo-“ and she giggled against him, saying, “I don’t care I don’t care, I’ve been waiting for so long.”

            They kissed, tongues dueling, and then he was covering her body, and wrapping arms around her and saying, “condoms.”

            “I have an IUD.”

            He nodded. This was standard practice for female agents in case of a sudden unexpected honeypot mission, but he still wanted to be sure to be safe, “condoms, Ganieda.” He looked at her, and used the tone of voice that brooked no arguments and she sighed. She rolled over to her bedside table and pulled the drawer open. While she rooted blindly in the drawer for condoms, Merlin’s eyes were drawn to the frame on the table top. It was a tasteful frame and the photo inside was of them. He remembered it. It was from when she was 14 and he’d taken her home to visit Scotland and his family. In the photo, taken at a festival-the main reason they’d gone to Scotland-he wore his kilt, and his socks, and he had an arm wrapped around Ganieda, who wore his jumper, the suede shoulders drooping off her small frame, the wool drowning her, but they were both smiling for the camera, grinning at his mother behind the camera, and she had her arms around his waist. He remembered that day, how happy he was to be able to show her his hometown and his Scottish heritage and how she’d drunk it all in, and kept saying “that explains so much!”anytime his family revealed a story about his childhood. She’d gotten cold, not used to the chill of Scotland, despite her own English upbringing, and he’d given her his brown jumper to wear, and all day people had kept saying “your daughter is so cute, she’s so sweet.”

            The memory of Ganieda being referred to as his daughter almost made Merlin’s dick soften, and he scowled at the memory. Ganieda turned to look at him over her shoulder, holding the condoms aloft and said, “what’s with the look, Merlin?”

            He shook his head, and said, “it’s nothing.”

            “Don’t talk yourself out of this, you want this as much as I do.” She said, as she rolled over and handed him the strip. He looked at the picture one last time before looking down at his body. She looked at the picture and silently reached out to flip it face down.

            For her, the photo brought good memories, and when she touched herself at night, she looked at Merlin’s face in the picture to help bring herself off, but she understood that perhaps for him the photo only reminded him of their stark age difference. He didn’t understand yet that it was his age and his advanced experience that was part of the appeal for her. She remembered how warm his jumper had been on her, and how strong his arms felt around her as he’d walked her through the festival grounds, telling her all about his time in this town.

            She moved to curl along Merlin’s side, watching as he undid his trousers and pulled his half erect cock out with one hand and slid a condom over it with the other. He pulled at it as he turned to look at her, and she immediately kissed him. He chuckled, deep and throaty, against her lips, and kissed her back.

            “Get up, teacup.” He said, pulling from her, and she sat up. He pulled and guided her until she was straddling him, his cock sliding along her thigh, but not entering her. He arranged the skirt of her dress primly, so that it spread in a circle around him, and then reached under her.

            She sighed when he finally slid into her, but his hands, strong and firm, on her hips kept her from impaling herself right away and he slowly worked her down to the base, his neck cording with the pure strength it took to go slowly. Once she was fully seated on him, she smiled at him and he shot a quick smile before looking back at her skirts, as if he could see where they were connected.

            Oddly, the fact that she was now straddling her mentor, with his dick in her, stretching her, filling her, and his large hands on her hips, the sounds of their skin bouncing against each other wasn’t even what struck them as the most intense of the moment. It was more the fact that he was still fully dressed in his usual woolen sweater and tie and with his trousers still on, and his shoes on his feet, and her still in her dress, and her heels pushing against her butt because of how she was sitting that was more obscene, more arousing. His hands moved from under her skirts to encircle her waist, palms and thumbs rubbing along the soft cotton of her dress, and she leaned down to put her hands on his itchy wool sweater, gripping them in her hands. She noted that it was the same sweater he’d lent her in Scotland, and the realization made her bite back a moan.

            She looked up at his face, the light from the lamp illuminating his glasses. Every so often, the light reflecting off his lenses shifted and she could see his dark eyes watching his hands on her waist, intense and unreadable. She felt like one of his computer screens, his attention fully focused on her, observing and analyzing her responses. She groaned and said “Merlin…” But broke off, not sure what she’d wanted to say. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and now he was boring into her, watching her. Her skin flushed and she bit her lip, suddenly shy. He slid a hand up to cup her breast, the fabric shishing under his calloused hand and she bounced harder on him. He curved a hand around her neck and pulled her to lie on his chest.

            “Ssshh, I got ye, I got ye,” he said, arousal thickening his brogue, and she clutched at his sweater, the wool scratching her oversensitive skin. He rubbed circles on her back, even as he pounded up into her willing wet body, his shoed heels scrambling for purchase on her bed. It was unseemly that they still had shoes on the bed, he thought, and then she made a sound in her throat and his balls tightened.

            “Make that sound again, teacup.” He demanded, and pushed with a hand at the back of her hips, pushing her down deeper on his cock, which made her make the sound again.

            He kissed at her hair and her temple in praise and she mewled against his throat. Her hands curved along his jaw and she nuzzled at his chin and skin, kissing the corner of his lips and his jaw. Now that she knew what it was like to kiss him, she never wanted to stop. His hands cupped her ass, and he found purchase on the bed so he could angle himself to slam into her. He found the sweet spot in her, he figured, when she stilled and gasped into his ear. Grinning ferally to himself, he kept at it, angling himself so that he could hit it, slowly, gently, which drove her crazy with need and desire. She felt herself cresting to a climax, and cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. When he hit the spot just so, and she found herself climaxing, she pulled off his lips and smushed her face into his neck, and came with a long soft moan, almost crying at how good it felt. She lay there in his arms, quivering and gasping against his neck, as he murmured in her ear and rubbed circles on her back and arms. He was still in her, and she started to move her hips sluggishly and off beat, encouraging his own climax. He groaned at it, and moved his hands to her hips again.

            They looked at each other and he said, “you ready?”

            She nodded and said, softly, “fuck me, Merlin.”

            He smiled fondly and said, “such a mouth on you.”

But he did just as she instructed and slammed into her over and over, using her lax relaxed body, grasping her hair with one hand and pulling her head softly so he could kiss a line along her neck. When he came, he stilled so tightly, she felt as if he suddenly turned to stone under her, and then with a sigh he relaxed under her, eyes sliding closed. His limp cock slid out of her, but his arms still wrapped her in a hug and she was content to lay there, bracketing him between her thighs. Their breathing was in sync, rapid and hoarse, until slowly their hammering hearts and gasping slowed to a more normal pace.

            She found herself drifting in his arms, lulled by his steady heart and breathing, and groaned piteously when he suddenly gently pushed her off.

            The light from the lamp caught her eyes and she screwed up her face, while Merlin leaned in and said, amusement in his voice, “time for bed, I think?”

            She nodded, and then frowned when the bed bounced with his sudden departure. She opened her eyes to see that he was facing the mirror above her dresser, pulling open the drawer reserved for her pajamas. He set a folded pair on the top, but then began to undress. His undressing was methodical, and not intended to entice or arouse anyone watching him, but she still found herself riveted by every motion he made. He focused fully and thoroughly on his motions. He took his watch off, and set it carefully among her scattered jewelry. He slid his sweater off and folded it, setting it on the top of her dresser. The tie went next, then his shirt. His trousers were set on the corner of the dresser, and then he slipped his oxfords off. Soon he stood in his undershirt, boxer briefs and trouser socks that were held up by garters. He looked like a man stepping out of the 1930s. While he was undressing, she’d started to undress herself, without taking her eyes off his body. She lifted her hips to undo the straps that held her stockings to her garter belt, and then stopped, watching him. He caught her eye in the mirror and turned to her with a smile. Taking up her pajamas in his hands he walked over to the bed, and put them on the bed. She knelt on the bed and he reached around her to undo her dress. After her dress pooled around her knees, he undid her bra, but-maddeningly-paid no attention to her breasts, and instead handed her the top half of her pajama set. He buttoned it up for her, and she slid off the bed, letting her dress fall over her hips to the floor. He unhooked her garter belt and then handed her the bottom half of her pajamas. While she stepped into them, he picked up and folded up her clothing. Now she wore pajamas, but still had her stockings and heels on. He put her folded up clothing on the dresser, next to his own-which seemed so very intimate to Ganieda and made her heart pound-and came back. He guided her to sit on the bed, and knelt so that he could slide her stockings down to her ankles and unhooked her heels.

            He kissed her ankle and her knee, and then swept up over her, crawling over her into the bed. She rolled after him, and they pulled the bedsheets up and over them. He settled on the pillows, an arm out for her to curl herself along his side. With a last kiss on her forehead, they settled in to sleep.

            After that night, they were pretty well set. They were still as close as ever, but in a different way. Merlin still held her to the same exacting standards he had always held her to, and she still looked up to him in the same way she had always done. When they were at work, they kept things clear and cut: no unnecessary touching and affection, no pet names, no flirting, no office sex. The last one was hard for them. But after work, when their missions and paperwork and meetings and debriefings were done, and they were free to go home, they were free to indulge in each other and their fantasies.

            They went straight to his place from the Kingsman headquarters or the Kingsman tailor shop most nights, and eventually her pajamas, her makeup, her toothbrush, her outfit “for tomorrow” all emigrated to his house. When before, his house had clearly been the house of a bachelor who was singularly focused on work, clean and organized and barely lived in other than the photos of Ganieda and him through out her life, now his house seemed more alive, more lived in. Her books were scattered through out his house, her shoes left haphazardly by doorways, and her stockings draped over any railing or rod to dry. Food she liked took space next to his favorites in the fridge, and her tea cup sat next to his on the bedside table in his bedroom.

            On particularly trying days, when it seemed nothing Merlin did was right, and nothing worked out, and despite his best efforts, the world seemed to spin out of control, he loved that he could take her home to his place, and she knew how to make him feel more stable, more steady. She knew the right things to do or say to make his tense shoulders loosen and his spine soften, and how to help him let go of the overwhelming sense of control and responsibility he thought he had to carry all the time as the taskmaster for the Kingsman.

                        This method of comforting usually involved him on his hands and knees in front of her, his asshole being played with and his balls and dick handled roughly. To give up control to her made him feel better, and to kneel before her and beg for release while she toyed with his hole and made him tremble with the denial of what he wanted allowed him a sense of security in a life that didn’t lend well to stability. She kissed along his rigid spine, a hand in his hole, and the other cupping his balls, and murmured sentiments of affection along his skin.

          He moaned into the rug, his forehead resting on his forearms and as the intensity of what Ganieda was doing to him increased, he threw a long lean leg out behind him, unable to withstand it any longer. Her hand was wet with his pre-come and she bit at his shoulder blade and said, “baby, you wanna come?”  
            He gasped, nodding, and she pulled at him until with a sob he was coming, ass clenching around her fingers, thighs trembling. He knelt there, crying freely, while she soothed him, rubbing his back in soothing circles. He sat up back on his haunches with a sigh, and she immediately pulled him to sit in the circle of her limbs, his back to her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, and kissed the curve where his neck and shoulder met.

            He gasped as he came down from the emotional high, and curled up into her arms. He was boneless and languid in the wake of his orgasm, and she held him until he was ready to come back into himself, and when he did, he gently extricated himself from her arms, and looked over his shoulder at her. She regarded him and he said, hoarsely, eyes rimmed with red, “’m ready for bed, teacup.”

            So their life was this: the Kingsman, and each other. She was still the best long-range sniper but Merlin was still training her to be as good as he was at hand to hand combat with bladed weapons. He was still the best when it came to intel gathering and technological advances on the Kingsmans’ weaponry and technical capabilities. At some point, Morgana broke her leg dropkicking an assassin in the face and the Kingsman and her family forced her to go into retirement. And so Ganieda became the new Morgana and she turned to Merlin for help with the new responsibilities and paperwork that goes into being leader and bankroller of an international spy network.

            And then Lancelot was cut in half by a woman with swords for legs in the mountains, and then there was the job interview, where Harry’s choice immediately caught both Merlin and the new Morgana’s attention and they bet each other that he would be the one to excel above all others, and then Harry was shot in the face, and V-Day happened. Morgana was on a mission in the far reaches of some forest-she always got the forests all mixed up-when the signal went out, and by the time Merlin and Eggsy and Roxy had taken out the satellite, and she came home to an exultant and happy Merlin. Focusing on the positive helped keep the failures from hurting. And now Morgana had new agents to train and work with.

            A year later, the Kingsman were gone. As she stood in the rubble on Saville Row, among the ruins of what used to be her family’s legacy, she held Merlin’s hand in the pouring down rain. Merlin’s hand gripped hers so tight it hurt, but she let him, grateful that his address hadn’t been in the same database as hers. That she’d lost her house but that he was spared. She thanked whatever was looking out for her, that she’d chosen tonight to drag him to the movies. They’d been at the grocery store picking up late night snacks because she always craved something sweet after popcorn at the cinema, when the glasses’ feeds had gone haywire.

 _This wouldn’t have happened during my grandmother’s reign._ She thought. Rain pounded on her umbrella, as Galahad, some newcomer from the streets who had been picked by Harry-bitterly she thought of him, shot in the face by some low-class thug in America- ran at Merlin and grabbed his lapels. She knew Merlin could hold his own so she stood back and let him comfort Galahad as best he could. Through logic and reason. Galahad calmed down, chagrined and Merlin, of course, had a plan for their next move.

            That’s how Morgana, Galahad and Merlin ended up in Kentucky, America.

That’s how they ended up sitting in a small room, sterile and steel, with American people with rough vowels, staring through a glass window at Harry. Harry, shot in the head in Kentucky, America. Harry, with a black eye patch, staring unseeing at them through the glass. Galahad-Eggsy’s voice cracked as he whispered “Harry” and Merlin’s jaw worked in stunned silence, and Morgana was behind them as they ran to Harry. She stood in the doorway and watched how Harry recoiled in confusion from his friends, from his protégé. She turned from the scene, even as Eggsy and Merlin argued with Harry about his memories, and sought the kind eyes of Ginger Ale, and said, always seeking comfort in the intelligence of intel agents: “take me to your boss, and tell me what’s happening here.”

            That night, in their room provided by the Statesmen, Merlin fucked her from behind three times. The first was rough and fueled by adrenaline, stress and pain from the past few days: losing the Kingsman, losing their technology and intel, finding Harry. They took a break to hydrate, his hand in her hair, stroking tendrils like a child fingers a safety blanket, as they stood by the small fridge in the room, bottles making crumpling sounds as they sucked the last of the water into their mouths. The second time he was more gentle, kissing her spine and she cried then, silently into her arms: she was now the only one of her family, she couldn’t get hold of her grandmother so she had to assume that despite her retirement and her grandmother’s seemingly invincibility, that she was gone. She cried for her parents, for her cousins, for Lancelot, JJ, for the new Arthur who had been kind and trustworthy, for all the other Kingsman she was supposed to protect and lead and failed and lost. She cried bitterly in anger at herself for being secretly relieved, so secretly happy that even with her family dead and gone, she was still so happy that Merlin had lived. She cried in shame that she would have traded any of the Kingsman for Merlin. She cried as he gently thrust into her, she cried as he lowered his chest onto her back, as he petted her hair and whispered into her ear, “teacup, teacup,” and she cried even as she came underneath him. The third time he took her that night, they were standing at the glass window, looking out over the factory that the Statesmen ran, drinking more water. They could see their reflections in the window, imposed over the long low buildings where they distilled the liquor. He had his arm around her, and she leaned into his side. They didn’t speak, didn’t even look at each other’s reflections, and he silently guided her to stand in front of him. He pressed gently with his hands and she bent forward slightly, hands on the window, and he pulled up her robe. She looked at the reflection of his hands on her breasts, feeling separate from this moment, even as she felt his hard cock sliding into her. She watched intently as his hands worked her robe open and cupped and cradled her breasts. He stared out over her shoulder at the landscape, mind elsewhere, but always with her. He thought of what she was going through. So young and she already outlived her family’s inheritance. The thing that her ancestors started that spread along her bloodline like an heirloom, given to her with love and cruelty by her grandmother, and now she was the last Kingsman. He ran a hand along her hairline, and leaned in to kiss her shoulder. She mumbles something and he asked what she said and she said, touch of dark humor to her words- _too young to have such grim humor_ , he thinks despondently- “are we gonna have to start wearing jeans now?”

            “What makes you think I’d let you become someone other than Morgana?” Merlin counters and she said, “maybe I should let someone else be in charge. Look what happened when I was.”

            “This would have happened to anyone, even to your grandmother.”

            She was silent, hands pressed against the window. Idly Merlin wonders if they’re being watched, filmed. Wonders if Champagne, that strangely exuberant leader, is watching the young Morgana be fucked by a man thrice her age. Part of him hopes so. He wants the Americans, that Champagne, and Tequila and Whiskey, to know they can’t push Morgana around. He wants them to respect her, and know that even without Kingsman behind her, that she’s still a force to be reckoned with. But he also, possessively, wants them to know who she shares her bed with, and know that he alone has her trust and that anyone who comes after her will pay. He looks at his reflection then, and then cranes his head to look at the corners of the room, the mirrors and frames on the walls, the likely places they’d hide cameras. Let them watch. She’s his, and he’s always been hers.

            They lie in bed after, his arms around her, their legs tangled. The room smells of sex and sweat and he’ll take the first shower soon, and he wishes he’d thought to stop by his house in London before they took off for Kentucky: her hair won’t react well to the harsh generic shampoo in the bathroom, and he misses her perfume that she always wears.

            When she wakes, he’s in the shower, and she goes to get another drink of water. There’s bite marks on her throat and her eyes are puffy from crying. Her head hurts too, and she wonders how Merlin’s head is doing. It was a little swollen after he’d had it slammed into that vat of bourbon but when she tried to tend to it the night before, he’d just stared at her and said “I wanna fuck ye, teacup.” And that was how they spent last night. The door opens, and steam comes out, and Merlin walks out, towel around his waist, a show of decency and she says, “how’s your head?”

            “Fine.” He answers brusquely and then says, “their tea sucks.” She notices then that he’d made them little Styrofoam cups of cold weak tea. She triesthe tea, even as she knows he’s right: it does suck. She sits next to him and says, touching his skull gently, “do you need a doctor? You were hit pretty hard.”

            “I was knocked out, like some pathetic-“

            “Hey, no. He had element of surprise, and your training isn’t in fighting like Eggsy and H-“ her voice cracks on his name and they sit. “Your training is in information. That’s most important.”

            “I couldn’t even protect you.” He says, bitterly, and she stares at him.

            “You are.” She says, finally. And he looks at her. “You are. You always have. That doesn’t change just because some posturing American redneck knocks you out.”

            “I couldn’t protect you from-“ He starts and stops. She looks at him, and says “I couldn’t protect anyone either.”

            The knock on the door interrupts them and they’re off, it’s Tequila who has coffee and apologizes to Merlin, and winks flirtaously at Morgana. Merlin preens when she responds by reaching for Merlin’s hand. They go to the Statesmen’s meeting room. The long wooden table already has Eggsy and Ginger Ale sitting there. Champagne calls the shots and Ginger gives them the information and Merlin thinks how odd it is to be the one on the receiving end of the intel, and Morgana thinks how odd it is to be the one given the orders. She had thought, briefly, of running from the Kingsmnn to Statesmen, becoming an agent, becoming Champagne’s agent. Now she knows she won’t. She might be more like her grandmother than she thought. Eggsy takes their cue, lets the Americans take point and make decisions, but Merlin is gratified to see that before he says anything, before he accepts orders, he looks at Morgana. Eggsy might drive him around the bend, and be rough around the edges still, but Merlin is touched by his loyalty, by his unwavering faith in Morgana. Everyone notices that Eggsy looks to Morgana before he accepts instructions, and it’s an unspoken statement: _you call the shots here, mate, but_ she’s _my leader._

            Then the video comes and Poppy-Merlin is startled at how much her clothing resembles Morgana’s, disgusted-makes her threats, explains her plans-Morgana makes a quip about how villains always have to lay out their plans, and Champagne chokes laughing-and then Tequila’s veins are blue and Ginger is horrified and now Tequila’s out of commission and now Eggsy has to work with Whiskey, and Merlin and Ginger will focus on Harry and getting his memory back, and Morgana and Champagne will work together, they’ll consult the archives and connections. Merlin notices that Champagne looks at Morgana with respect. He’s gratified. Yesterday, he hadn’t been sure how the older man would treat an peer of such an young age but of the same authority, and now he knows: Champagne knows where they stand, and he leaves with Ginger. As they make their way down to the floor where Harry is kept, they’re quiet. He knows she’s worried about Tequila. He’s worried about Harry, about Eggsy. Eventually he notices she won’t look at him, even as she talks to him. It’s been hours and they’ve scoured and exhausted every tried method to help Harry get his memory back, and he’s noticed that while she’s warm and friendly, she won’t look at him, make eye contact, and he wonders if she’s the one who watched them last night. He wants to ask her. So he does.

            “Did you watch Morgana and I last night?”

            She sputters and he knows. And she stumbles over words and mentions Tequila, and then he knows.

            “You and Tequila.”

            “No. No, it’s-it’s not-“She starts. Pauses. Then continues:

            “Agents can’t fraternize. Supposedly that’s to keep things safe. Keeps us on our toes and without distraction.”

            “Loving Morgana is why she and I are still alive.” He states firmly. Offers nothing else, and then says, more warmly, “loving someone makes you better, Ginger. It gives you a reason to come back from a mission, she tells me all the time.”

            Ginger looks at him, and she understands. Tequila’s said that to her too, and she always brushed it off, but now she gets it. They’re left behind to wait and fret and watch, and she always thought she was the weakness for Tequila, that she’d distract him, cause him to die, but now she gets it. Even from the moment she met the three agents, she knew there was a realm of love and trust and connection between Merlin and Morgana, like there was an invisible chain that connected them that everyone could feel even if they couldn’t see it. When she watched them last night, in their room, she’d been embarrassed at seeing them at their intimate moments, but when she watched him pet her hair, and watched her kiss his shoulder, and how they held each other and how they looked at each other, she knew. Merlin was why Morgana always came home. She was why Tequila always came home. They sat in their computer labs at opposite ends of the world, feeling powerless and helpless as they watched their lovers, when all along, they were always the reason the agents even bothered.

            She choked back emotion and turned back to Harry and they went back to work. In the end it was Eggsy and his bond with Harry that helped Harry remember and despite the protests of Morgana, Harry was sent back on the field with Eggsy and Whiskey.

            Ginger was knew Morgana wasn’t the type to say “I told you so,” but she was still grateful when the woman comforted her when Whiskey was shot by Harry. She knew then why Morgana was the leader when Morgana immediately said “call him back, we need to retreat, re-do this. This is a set back. I am so sorry.” Her hand on Ginger’s shoulder _is_ a comfort, the woman seems genuine. Suddenly she remembers they’re not enemies, and that the woman whose agent has just murdered Ginger’s agent has lost everything to Poppy. It’s Poppy that’s the enemy here, not the British girl. Ginger smiles at Morgana and nods. “Let’s re-do this.”

            In the end, Harry is redeemed, and they are stunned and the Americans infuriated to find that Whiskey was a double-agent. This time, all the Kingsmen go to Poppyland. Morgana began to protest when Merlin stepped on the helicopter but Merlin had sound arguments and she knew she couldn’t let her personal feelings interfere, that wasn’t how Merlin raised her, so she bit her tongue.

            Ginger watches in horror as Merlin steps on a land mine meant for Eggsy. She tears up as Harry and Merlin tell Eggsy that they owed Eggsy’s dad and now Merlin is accepting his end. And then she hears over the comm Morgana’s furious hiss and sees through their glasses as she runs up towards Merlin, something in her hand. Before Merlin can say anything, she’s thrown a rock on top of the land mine and pulled Merlin to her. She’s furious, Ginger can tell, and Merlin recoils, never having been one to receive her wrath, and then she’s kissing him, deep and hard, and Harry and Eggsy stare. Ginger realizes that they never knew Merlin and Morgana were an item. She wonders how they missed that, when the love shines in Merlin’s eyes whenever Morgana walks into the room, and how Morgana always seeks Merlin like a missile seeks its target.

            Merlin moans, he doesn’t mean to, but her kiss is passionate and deep, her anger, her fear, her relief spilling onto his tongue, into his mouth. She pulls back from him and whispers, rage and pain in each word: “you. Are. Not. Allowed. To. Leave me. That’s an order, Merlin, you daft fool.”

            When they pull apart, Eggsy is still staring at them, but Harry has looked away. Merlin wonders if he’s angry, disappointed. He wonders if Harry feels betrayed that Merlin never told him about her, wonders if he thinks Merlin took advantage of the girl. And then the troops are surrounding them, and Poppy’s voice spills out and Morgana goes ahead of them, first in line to face the firing squad.

            Merlin will admit to himself that he got a little hard watching her take out the first two soldiers in her cute black fit and flare skirt, her red high heeled shoes flashing in the sunlight. Then she, Harry and Eggsy take on Poppy’s goons, cornering Poppy in her kitchen, while Merlin runs to her office. He rifles through her papers, her computer, tries to outthink her, find a weakness in her plan, a way to undo what she’s done, and prevent what she plans to do.

            In the end, he saves the day. He runs into the kitchen, garishly nostalgic, and barely notes the meat grinder with a leg sticking out, and sees Poppy, suffering the effects of her own drug. She catches Merlin’s eye and rather than tell Eggsy the password he needs, she laughs and says “oh! Another one! I like **you** ” and then dies. Morgana coolly looks at Merlin and says, while Eggsy and Harry look at each other in disconcerted alarm, “well, did you get it?”

            He holds up the post-it with his note on it and says “yes. It’s Viva Las Vegas.” Eggsy turns to the briefcase and types it in, and Morgana pushes away from the counter and runs to Merlin, arms tight around him. He thinks perhaps she’s forgiven him for almost dying but then she pinches the skin at the base of his spine, painfully, and he knows he’ll have to make it up to her.

            The beep indicates they succeeded: none of the users will die from the blue in their veins. Eggsy’s girlfriend will live, Tequila will live, Harry is alive. For once, they won. Morgana thinks her grandmother would be proud.

            That night, Merlin takes Morgana’s face in his hands, his large hands cupping her jaw. When she was small, her whole head used to fit in the palm of one of his hands, and whenever he needed comfort, or to reassure her, he’d put his hand around her head and she’d lean her head in his palm. He’d laugh and say “like a teacup, you fit so perfectly there.” Now his hands fit her jaw, his thumbs trace her cheekbones, his fingers cup her skull. Her hands are on his face too, her thumbls trace his eyebrows, the lines under his eyes. They run up and down his nose, and her fingers curl around his ears. They lean in, or pull each other in, and they kiss and then rest their foreheads against each other. She’d been angry at him still, fuming silently on the ride back to Kentucky, unable to look at him, even as she grasped his hand to her chest, where he could feel her beating heart on the back of his knuckles. She’d stood next to Champagne as they addressed the rest of the Statesmen, as they’d wrapped up the day’s events. She’d gazed kindly at Ginger as the woman asked to be promoted to Whiskey, and she’d hugged Eggsy and Harry fiercely, and laughed in confusion as a newly recovered Tequila taught her how to do a fist bump and all the while she ignored Merlin.

            He knew he’d frightened her, he knew he’d taken a risk, going against her protests, he knew she now understood how he felt every time she went on a mission. After the obligatory celebration-the Americans seemed to take any chance to ‘whoop it up,’ Merlin noted-was done with, and everyone was left to their nights, Merlin considered how to resolve this problem. He considered getting on his knees and eating her out, she loved that. But he rejected that, because he loved that too, and she’d feel he was trying to distract her from her fear and anger. He considered responding with logic by reminding her that they were agents and professionals and besides, he always has to stay behind when she goes off and puts herself in danger and the one time he does, and she’s pissy? No. Coming at her with anger would just make her cry and she’d done enough crying. He didn’t want her to cry anymore. He’d just beg her to forgive him, and let her choose.

            He’d made up his mind and went to their shared room. She was already undressed, wearing his jumper, her back to him, staring out at the distillery. As soon as the door closed, she spun and ran to him. He wrapped his arms around her.

            “I don’t even know whether to be angry, or relieved or terrified or sad, or oh god, so so happy. Merlin, you bastard! I almost lost you.” She said against his chest. Her mascara was streaked, staining the white of his shirt. She looked up at him, her lipstick smearing against his shirt too and he said, “I’m sorry.”

            “I am too. You were so terribly brave, I’m sorry I ruined your moment of great heroic martyrdom.”

            “I had a song planned too, I was going to sing-“

            “Take Me Home, Country Road.” She said, and he smiled.

            “Yeah. But.. I’ll forgive you. Will you forgive me.”

            “Always.”

            She made them weak barely warm tea, and he drew a bath and they sat in the hot water, her head against his clavicle, his arms around her stomach. He sang to her, his voice deep and soft in her ear: Take Me Home, Country Road. Back Home Again, Sunshine on my Shoulders, I’m Sorry, Perhaps Love, My Sweet Lady, How Can I Leave You Again, and then when his voice falters, he takes to humming, his lips pressed against her hair and neck. Her hands are wrapped around his, fingers toying with his, and she says, looking at his bony knees sticking out of the water, “I want to take my IUD out.”

            Merlin is silent then, for a long while. She doesn’t worry. She isn’t afraid he’ll reject what she’s offering him, what she’s asking him. He doesn’t respond until they’re in bed, and she’s wearing the top of his pajamas and riding his cock, his pajama pants pulled under his balls.

            He looks up at her, and says, “We’ll name her after your grandmother, and him after my grandfather. Deal?”

            She nods and they shake on it, and he rolls her onto her back, and finishes the job.

            At Eggsy’s wedding, she and Merlin are talking to Harry and Tequila, who is now transferring to Kingsman, to help them rebuild Kingsman. Merlin is looking around, critical of everything, taking note of everything he likes, everything he doesn’t, looking for inspiration for his own wedding. He hasn’t asked her yet, hasn’t figured out how, but he already knows he’ll wear his kilt, and it’ll be in his mother’s backyard, and they’ll hide the alcohol from his uncles. He knows the combinations to her grandmother’s safety deposit box, all 20 of them, and he’ll go through them all and find the ring that belonged to the first Kingsman’s wife, but he’s buying his own ring for her. He already knows what it’ll look like. Maybe he’ll buy it tonight and propose tomorrow.

            Her hand finds his and he hears her tell Harry and Tequila, “Merlin and I are planning to rebuild the Kingsman as a family business, but that’ll take awhile. So we’re happy you’re here to help keep the business part of it going.” Tequila is confused for a moment and then Harry coughs and says, “ah yes, gotta wait for the next generation of Kingsman to grow up first.”

            Tequila is still confused and Merlin says, laconically, “she’s saying I’m going to father the next line of her family.”

            Tequila gets it, then and then smiles at her and says, “congratulations! How far along?”

            For a moment Merlin’s eyes widen and his heart thumps. Could she already be? She just had her IUD taken a few months ago but the doctor said it’d be awhile before her hormones regulated. He, Harry and Tequila immediately go for the glass of champagne she’s drinking and she pulls it away and says, “not yet!”

            Eggsy comes over then, resplendent in his new Princely garb and hugs his boss, whisking her away to dance on the floor with him while his new bride dances with her father. By the time she’s returned to him, Eggsy has a glow on his face and he looks at Merlin and says “I just got promoted!”

            Merlin raises an eyebrow and says “I know. We saw you marry a Princess.”

            “No! I’m yer new nanny, guv.”

            Merlin’s jaw drops and Eggsy pumps the air with his fist. He runs off to his new wife, and Merlin can imagine him telling her he’s going to be a glorified babysitter for his young boss. He’s probably more excited about that than about being a Prince and he wonders at the boy’s priorities and then he realizes: that’s the best thing about Eggsy. It isn’t fame and titles and class and breeding that Eggsy cares about. He’s realizing that Eggsy is excited about being trusted by Morgana enough to be given responsibility of their baby. The same way he was trusted by the first Morgana to protect Ganieda. He looks down at Ganieda, at Morgana, at teacup. “I wouldn’t trust Eggsy with my baby.”

            She shrugs and drinks her champagne.

            “You know he’s swum through shit, right?”

            She shrugs again. And then looks at him and says “wait, what?”

            End


End file.
